Summer Rains
by vballmania23
Summary: Oneshot. "A dark figure shuffles along the sidewalk. My first thought is that it is one of my old war buddies. It is in the way he walks, shoulders hunched and head bowed." Someone sees Harry walking in the rain and reflects. Set any summer post-GoF.


**A/N:** My plot bunnies are currently being brainwashed by Harry Potter, and not focusing on Batman like good little minions. But hopefully now that I've written this down, they'll get back on track and a new chapter will be up soon. Please R/R. I accept flames, advice, corrections, ideas, randomness, whatever. It's all fun to read. :)

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I rub my leg and mutter curses as it throbs painfully. All these years after the war, and my old wound still starts aching at the barest hint of rain. I bend down and collapse on the couch, trying my hardest to keep the strain off my creaky bones. My arms shake just the slightest bit as I raise them and prop them up on the back of the couch.

Where had the strong young body gone? The one that had carried me to war and back, that had withstood bullet and shrapnel wounds. I had used it up, but it still clung to the Earth with the stubbornness that my wife used to always cluck her tongue at. _Old._ I am too damn old. Living past my wife, my siblings, my friends. Now all that remains is an old man who lives alone, trapped in the used-up shell of his body.

I turn my head to the side, and watch the empty streets displayed beyond my window. As the storm clouds loom over head, the neighborhood is deserted for drier areas. We used to dance in the rain. It was always her favorite thing to do. Whenever the clouds would darken, she would drag me outside. We would sway together to music that only the two of us ever understood, soaked to the bone.

She always was peaceful, when it rained. A smile would tug at the corners of her lips, and she would float around the house with her head in those clouds. When monstrous storms would tear branches from the trees and shingles from our roof, she would cluck her tongue like an indulgent mother and send me out to gather up the debris.

The soft pattering of rain on the roof fills my quiet home. A dark figure shuffles along the sidewalk, just filling up the corner of my window. My first thought is that it is one of my old war buddies. It is in the way the figure walks, shoulders hunched and head bowed against the weather. It is in the way the feet plod ahead, one foot in front of the other in a determined but wearied march. His hands are burrowed into dry pockets, arms tucked close to his body.

The moment passes, and reality sinks in again. It cannot be one of my friends. They are all resting in graves, arms placed at their sides as they wore their best military uniforms. I examine the figure, curious as to who it could be. Is it possible another old war vet moved in the neighborhood and I hadn't heard? The person gets closer, and I realize it isn't even a man. It's a teenage boy, with dark wet hair plastered to his forehead.

Have I missed the start of another war? I flip through my mental index of world events. There are no wars going on, no battles to be fought. But this boy looks as if he has been fighting long and hard. He has the same look so many of us gained during the war, and never managed to fully shake off. His shoulders are slumped with loss, head bowed against what the world sought to throw at him. The hands are put away in a gesture of hopelessness, of a wish to stop struggling and simply let it all go.

It is the look unique to those that have experienced war. In my long life, I've seen many people with all sorts of problems. But the weight of war that clings to a person is different from anything else. Old campaigners can recognize one another simply from a glance. And it is the same with this boy. I can picture walking past him on a city sidewalk fifty years ago. We would both look up from our thoughts, nodding a greeting as we recognized a fellow fighter. But this isn't fifty years ago, and there isn't a war. So I sit in my plush chair and wonder while he continues on his way, lost in his thoughts.

I watch as he walks down the street, past my house and down the block. His trudging steps slow down as he nears the end of the block, until they stop completely. The boy seems to hesitate outside the house, as if debating on whether to enter or just keep on walking away from everything. Finally, he settles his shoulders and slides behind the door marked with a pristine brass number 4.


End file.
